


Caring is Creepy

by dreadwulf



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadwulf/pseuds/dreadwulf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is not sick. Fenris does not get sick. Fenris simply needs everyone to leave him alone and let him rest. Go away, Hawke. Don't nurse a very reluctant Fenris back to health after carrying him back to your house. Don't -- oh, hell, do whatever you want to, don't say I didn't warn you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

At first Fenris was only a little tired. Going to sleep a bit earlier, sleeping a little later. Watching the sun creep across the floor rather than getting out of bed to do his morning exercises. He reasoned that it was an exercise of freedom, lying in his bed a little longer. Nothing wrong with that.

That had been yesterday, and yesterday he had eventually gotten up and gone about his business. Today he was still in bed, and the sun was no longer shining in his east window. It must be very late indeed. He has missed his usual breakfast and possibly lunch as well, but he was not hungry. 

 _You have gotten lazy,_ he told himself.  _You were trained better than this._

But his body ached. Not the usual crackle of pain that skittered across his skin where the lyrium marked it — this was a deep gnawing in his muscles, and it was everywhere. He cannot think of what he could have done to earn this pain. There was no fighting yesterday, no fighting for at least ten days or more. In fact, now that he thought of it, he had turned Hawke down for work for the first-ever time a fortnight ago. Usually he would accept an invitation from Adrian Hawke without hesistation, owing him so very much. But instead this time he had made some excuse that he cannot remember now and Hawke had left his door without him and Fenris had gone back to bed, and he quickly forgot all about it.

No fighting then. No anything, really. So he could not think of why he would hurt so.

He was irritated more than anything else. Being made to pay such attention to the limitations of his body made him cross. He did not like to notice very much about his body and would rather ignore it as much as possible, treat it like a sword or a sheathe and give it the minimum amount of maintenance required (though in truth he cared for his sword much more carefully, and with more pride). 

He laid abed with his mind quiet, waiting for the aching to subside, and he did not search out food or drink. There would not be much to find in the manor anyway. He did not sleep, exactly, but he could not be called awake either. The time simply passed in a haze. Only at sundown did he rouse fully, remembering that he had promised Varric that he would appear for Wicked Grace, and attempted to leave his bed.

He coughed a little, when he sat up. Only to clear his throat. He should find some water to drink, before he goes out.

Slowly and carefully he gathered his armor and strapped it to himself, feeling the weight much more strongly than he ever had before. They couldn’t have gotten heavier since yesterday. What a silly thought. How quickly a person loses their strength and conditioning, when they become lazy and undisciplined.

(Fenris was steadily avoiding the realization that he could be getting Sick. If he realized the possibility it would almost certainly be true, and sick was one thing he cannot imagine being.) 

Then he was trudging down the stairs to Lowtown and coughing a good deal more than before, and found himself pressing a hand to the baluster for balance. It became clear before very long at all that leaving had been a mistake, but turning back would force him to take the same stairs up, and it would be easier to keep going down. Anyway the cool night air felt pleasant against his clammy skin, and aside from the aches in his legs he felt better outside than in his dank crypt of a home. He continued on, a little mindlessly, down and down the dusty stairs.

His thoughts drifted.

The Hanged Man was even hotter and noisier than usual. He was sitting now in Varric’s suite and staring blankly at a hand of cards, and he could not remember coming in. It seemed he had just beenclimbing stairs a moment ago. Loud conversation rang out all around him, buzzed in his ears. An untouched mug of ale sat on the oak table in front of him and he lifted it cautiously to his lips. The lukewarm liquid was barely soothing to his burning throat, but it was better than nothing.

He blinked heavily and looked around the table. Varric was leaning back in his chair at the other side of the table, gesturing with his own glass and telling a story Fenris has heard several times before, though it seemed to be reaching a different ending this time. Beside him Isabela rested her chin in her palm and smiled fondly at the dwarf, even as she shot clever holes in the hull of Varric’s tale. She too appeared disinterested in her cards, although Fenris knew this could be misleading. Next to her sat Merrill, the Dalish bloodmage, who giggled and dropped her cards. Handing back her cards and helping her arrange them was Aveline, an infrequent participant in their weekly card game. Hawke sat to Varric’s left, and was the only one at the table to pay more attention to the game than to their dwarf host, studying his cards quite seriously. This, too, could be misleading. Hawke listened quite carefully, in Fenris's experience. The big man missed very little; his dull expression concealed a sharp and lively mind.

He was an interesting-looking human, Adrian Hawke. Not fine-boned and delicate like the Tevinters — if such a face could be called chiseled, one might imagine the sculptor had used a cudgel — but striking in his way. Square-jawed, round-nosed, and big, everything about him oversized and generous. And scruffy, as Isabela would say, before ruffling his hair affectionately. _You’re just a big puppy._ He _was_ rather like one of those mabari the fereldans had such an affinity for. Large and strong and a bit awkward, not quite fitting into the furniture, spilling more of his drink than he managed to get into his mouth. Quiet, though. Rather more bite than bark, unlike most of the Fereldans Fenris has met.

Hawke looked up, his serious brown eyes questioning, and Fenris became aware that he has been staring for much longer than he had realized. He quickly returned his gaze to his hand of cards, and covered his mouth over a wheezing cough.

"Are we still playing cards?" he forced out painfully, straining to keep his tone even. At this rate they would never get through a round, and it would be hours before he could get back to his bed.

"You must have a killer hand over there!" Varric interrupted his own story to glare at his cards, which had clearly offended him. "You certainly don’t have the coin to be this eager."

Isabela leaned over and gave the queasy elf an appraising look, trying to read his expression. “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to give your money away, Mr. Hightown Manor. I don’t think you’ve got the cards to back it up.”

"Raise me and see," he answered levely. But he didn't, he had nothing at all, and quickly lost another stack of coin to the pirate. She cackled and pulled the gleaming pile over to her corner, where a treasure-load of winnings had amassed. She tossed her hair and grinned at every loser around the table, and Fenris shook his head.  _Bah, let her have it,_ he thought peevishly, and rubbed his aching eyes with his thumb and forefinger.  _If she takes it all I can go back to the manor._

It should have been more upsetting than this to lose all the money he had brought, the only money he had managed to earn in two weeks, but he couldn't seem to muster the energy. That in itself was disturbing. A pang of concern struck him then, for his own lack of it.

Isabela misread his unease for disgust. “Don’t worry, sweet thing,” she said, winking charmingly. “I can spot you a few coins when I’m done taking them all.”

"No thank you." Fenris saw now that they were all looking at him, and it made him deeply uncomfortable. Hawke in particular had been studying him closely. He swallowed hard against his scratchy throat. "I believe I am finished for the night."

"You just got here!" Merrill interrupted. Strangely, she said it with real disappointment, never mind that he had not said a single word to her all night. "And we’ve barely seen you lately."

"Are you well?" Hawke spoke up. He speaks rarely enough that the room tends to quiet when he does, and the entire table turns in his direction. "You look exhausted."

"You know," Isabela took the opportunity to tease him, "I’ve got a bed here if you need one. You won’t get much rest though."

"Thank you, no." He pushed back his chair and rose, wobbling only a little. "I’ll get out with the coin I still have, I think." He managed to smile faintly as he collects his money, trying not to feel their eyes on him. He had always hated this, being looked at. It made his skin crawl, particularly tonight, when he is already so unbalanced. But when he looked up one last time they were already returning to the game.  _They will forget me the very moment I leave,_  he told himself, and it was not nearly so comforting as it ought to have been. 

Straightening his shoulders, he pushed his way out of the bar. So many humans standing around, all ridiculously tall and broad. A coughing fit overtook him on the way out, from the effort, from the dank air of the pub and the heat of many bodies crowded into it. It was a relief to come into open air again, feeling it cool the sweat beading on his skin. 

Outside was better, but not by much. It was warmer than it had been, not nearly so refreshing. Or perhaps it was him that was warmer; he seemed to have brought the feverish air of the Hanged Man with him.

Denial was working double-time to keep him on his feet, for now he had to climb the very many stairs to Hightown. There was no other option.

Fortunately he has had a lot of experience in mechanically performing the tasks of the body without much attention from his mind. He simply started the climb, thinking only of the next step. His legs covered the distance by themselves, up one stair and then another, and his awareness grew distant, much as it had years ago, when performing more unpleasant tasks. Eventually it would be over, as all things would be - that had been the only comfort available to him then and it remained useful now. He was only jolted back to a kind of awareness whenever a fit of coughing bent him over double and he was forced to stop and catch his breath. He wondered then if he couldn’t just stop there and sleep a little — it was not unheard of for people to sleep against the stairs, particularly after a visit to the Hanged Man — but he was nothing if not stubborn. Each time he took a deep breath and started to plod along again.

In this state he could do little else but climb and climb and do his best to ignore the screaming of his muscles at the their abuse and the increasing heaviness in his chest.

In such a state it would take very little to startle him.

When Fenris felt a hand fall against his left shoulder he returned a blow immediately, faster than he could think it, whirling around with outstretched arms and all the strength he can muster. Only after the blow had struck did he realize his mistake, that his target was a friendly one.

He has killed a man with less effort than this. With his lyrium alight he would have opened their throat, and even without it, a skilled punch could send a person stumbling down the stairs, and it is a very long way down. Fortunately the hand belonged to someone not so easily damaged. Instead he was as unmovable as a mountain, and Fenris fell against him with the momentum of his strike and stays there.

"Hawke," he croaked, horrified.

Adrian Hawke had caught a fist to the jaw, enough to turn his head, which was in truth a feat of its own. But even unarmored, in only a light tunic, it would take much more than this to knock him down. He caught his unthinking attacker with a strong arm around his waist and held him snug against him until he could be sure no more blows would follow. 

Fenris sagged for a moment, relief coursing through him. Not only that his mistake had not been fatal, but for the reassuring solidity of Hawke holding him upright he was almost pathetically grateful. There was room across his broad chest for two skinny elves, at least, and with his muscular shoulders and thick arms it took little effort at all to keep him there. For at least two, perhaps three breaths he let himself be held before wobbling backwards to stand on his own two unsteady feet.

"I am… so terribly sorry," he said, his shoulders hunched miserably. He could feel his face burning.

"I surprised you," Hawke said, nonplussed. He did this, this stating of the obvious. He named a thing that has just happened in a way that explains it completely. It was strangely comforting. 

Standing two steps beneath him, Hawke was at his eye level, due only in part to the elf’s slouch. The big man kept out his hands, not quite touching the elf’s unsteady form, as if preparing to catch him again. “I’m all right,” Fenris insisted, not quite meeting his eye. 

"What are you doing still here?" Hawke says, and his face was furrowed with concern. "You left the game nearly two hours ago."

"Oh," he answered faintly, his cheeks reddening. There was nothing else to say. 

"Well." Hawke looked around. "You’re nearly there, at least."

Fenris looked up. He had been walking so mindlessly that, without noticing, he had nearly finished the stairs. He could even see the Amell manor over the rise, often a friendly sight on this familiar journey. 

The sight cheered him, and he managed to resume walking without leaning his weight against the bannister. Hawke walked beside him, looking over regularly to watch his progress. Fenris wondered if Hawke was waiting for him to fall again, which made him even more determined to reach his destination unaided. 

They finished the stairs without speaking. Yet the silence was comfortable; Hawke had never been one for idle chatter. Fenris was even more grateful for this than usual. Somehow just having Hawke’s lumbering form beside him made it easier to keep going, as much as his muscles insisted he stop all this walking immediately. Adrian’s gait was straight and even and it kept him steady, all the way to the courtyard where they would normally part. 

Hawke stopped in front of his door and speaks up, a little awkwardly. ”Come back to mine, it’s closer.” 

Fenris interpreted this awkwardness as reluctance. Hawke was too polite not to extend the invitation, but surely he did not want him there. “No thank you. My own bed… will be most inviting tonight, and it is not far.” 

This much speech inspired another coughing fit, one that took some time to calm down. His chest ached now, from all of this effort, and the rasp in his throat had grown much worse. Each cough crumpled him over like a blow. Still, he snatched his arm back from Hawke’s concerned grasp. His face burned still from the shame of it all. 

Hawke stared, and waited, and did not go inside. “If you want.”

At last the elf recovered his breath, and straightened himself. He would say more, but was not sure he could get the words out. So he simply started walking, and Hawke followed. Just behind his elbow, at a thoughtful pace, he followed past the looming Chantry, through the garden district, never far from his side. Fenris couldn't quite muster the breath to tell him to go away, and it would be unforgiveably rude to refuse his assistance, even if he fervently wished to.

"You have walked me home often enough," Adrian reminded him quietly.  

True, but that was only sensible; it was right along the way. To do the reverse was impractical and it troubled him that Hawke felt it necessary. That Hawke had noticed his appalling weakness caused Fenris much more distress than the illness itself. 

"There," he finally said, stopping short. There was only a short distance to the manor now, at the end of the lane. In a quick, clipped tone, he managed to insist on letting himself in. Hawke did not fight him. His mouth was a firm line, difficult to interpret. Perhaps he was annoyed with him.

"Will you be all right in there alone?" Hawke asked, before leaving him.

Fenris forced another smile. “I need only a little sleep, and I will be well.”

Once he was inside, and Hawke well on his way, Fenris fell onto the first piece of furniture he encountered and stayed there. The last thing he thought, before falling into a deep sleep, was that now he would have no reason to see Hawke or anyone else again for days. He will be entirely alone with noone to bother him.

It was not nearly so comforting as it ought to have been.  


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris remained curled in the same chair he had fallen into for the rest of the night, after Hawke walked him home.

Time passed fitfully. Morning light filtered in through the broken windows and wandered across the room - first here at his feet, and then some distance away, seemingly between eyeblinks. By now Fenris had surrendered himself to the merciless passage of time; there was little else he could do.

Fevers ravaged his body, though he did not realize it. Instead he felt cold, and blamed the drafty manor and the harsh winter for his misery. Even now, if asked, he would deny any illness. He would admit only exhaustion, something that more sleep would cure. Harder to deny was the savage cough that crumpled his whole body in fits. He had not yet found a way to explain that away.

At some point Fenris dragged himself in front of the ancient stone fireplace and fed what scraps of wood remained to the fire, enough to bring it sputtering back to life. Watching it, he drifted back into a feverish sleep, curled up on the floor with every blanket he could find twisted around him.

Despite the fire, and even beneath layers of blankets, he shivered.

In his dreams he trudged through an endless night, snow blowing all around him. He dreamed of that first journey into the Free Marches, walking South from Seheron for weeks and weeks. A long, lonely walk, growing ever-colder. He who had never needed so much as a cloak to cover his bare arms, in the warm climate of Minrathous, now found himself scrounging for something to cover his face from the stinging wind. The landscape had shifted so completely from the lands he knew, it was almost as though he had entered another world entirely.  In the night he slept on the bare ground, concealed in the forests and caves of the wilds, and awoke with teeth chattering and toes numb. But he could not find a warmer place to rest. Not with slavers at his heels.

Now, in Kirkwall, periodically he jerked awake, hearing a noise in the distance. Even healthy, he did not sleep well here. The ancient house made strange noises in the night, creaking settling sounds that were difficult to distinguish from those an actual intruder would make. He had reason to fear intruders. Just because he was paranoid, he would often tell Varric during his visits, did not mean there wasn’t a bounty of thousands of sovereigns on his head.

Under normal circumstances he would rise from his bed and stalk the corridors until he could be reassured his stolen manor had not been invaded by Danarius’s followers (or, Maker forbid, the magister himself). Lacking the strength to patrol the manor he could only sit bolt upright and listen hard as he could to the ghostly silence, heart pounding frantically in his ears.

It is nothing, he told himself, it is nothing, it is nothing. A dream only.

A dream… or perhaps his addled mind playing tricks on him. But.. if there really were intruders creeping quietly closer, just as he was unable to defend himself to his fullest, it would be just the kind of preternaturally accurate timing Danarius had shown in the past. It would be the perfect opportunity to capture him, and his Master had always had a way of knowing exactly where and when to find him. Fenris had felt, lately, that the magister’s attempts to retrieve him had grown decidedly half-hearted, enough that perhaps he was merely merely toying with him for his own amusement. The very day Fenris allowed himself to relax, Danarius himself would appear, would find him with his guard lowered, and easily take him away.

He stared into the darkness, thinking this, and eventually decided that if there was nothing he could do about it, he may as well do nothing. He laid back on his nest of blankets, still shivering, and without meaning to drifted back into dreams of endless walking, wind and chill.

* * *

Sometime in the night (for it was night again, somehow) a decidedly real crash awoke him, and for a terror-struck minute he found himself unable to rise. There was no strength in his body, the adrenaline that rushed through him only produced a fit of chesty coughing that left him breathless. Every nerve in his body screamed danger and he could do nothing about it. His heart pounded in his ears for one full, helpless minute.

Then two faces swam into focus above him, with only moonlight to illuminate them. No glow of magic. No glint of weapons. It was Varric, his broad and friendly face leaning towards him, and further back, from the shape of him, was Hawke.

“Hi Broody. It’s us. You still alive in here?”

Fenris wheezed, struggling to raise his voice. “You broke into my house?”

“You weren’t answering your door,” Varric replied cheerfully, putting his lockpit kit away in the folds of his jacket.

“You could… have tried knocking..” Fenris croaked tiredly, pulling the blankets tighter around his shivering form.

Varric and Hawke exchanged a meaningful look. “We did knock. Loudly. Rather a lot, actually,” the dwarf said.

Fenris thought he detected a certain tone creeping into those words like one would use with a child or a lunatic, but he did not have the energy to bristle. Instead he let his eyelids close again. They were so very heavy.

He could hear his two intruders clanking around the room, setting down something that sounded heavy. Fenris chose to ignore it as he burrowed down into his nest of blankets. As intruders go, they were harmless. Annoying, but harmless.

“We brought some stew. Orana’s cooking. Good for what ails you.”

Varric’s booming voice was making his head ache. Fenris buried his head beneath the blankets. “Thank you… Now go away,” he coughed.

They did not go away. Hawke made himself busy at the hearth, feeding and poking the fire back to life again, while Varric hovered over Fenris’s nest by the fireplace. He was making some sort of commentary on the shabby state of his manor and how terrible Fenris looked personally, and what he should have been doing to prevent his current state, and before very long Fenris stopped making the effort to translate his stream of words into something comprehensible. Maker, the dwarf could talk. He might never stop. He forced down some of the stew to please him, and though the taste was quite acceptable, he had very little appetite. He managed only a few spoonfuls. 

Sleepily, he watched Hawke stoking the fire. He made an awkward shape squeezed beneath the mantle, but his crouch and the movement of his hands were steady, confident. The warm light brought a pleasant glow to the brown skin of his face and hands, and flickered fuzzily in the trimmings of his fur-lined coat. A blast of warmth issued from the reviving fire, and the big man rubbed his hands and nodded in approval.

Fenris realized that he was glad to see Hawke, even as he wanted desperately him to leave. Both at once.

Adrian looked over at him, smiling, and this warmed him more even than the fire. “Much better,” he rumbled, and for a moment he stayed crouching on the floor where he could meet his eyes. The fire. Hawke meant the fire. “Can we do anything more for you?” he asked, holding his gaze.

Fenris shook his head. An awful combination of gratitude and shame jumbled up inside him, neither of which he could adequately convey. As usual, he did not try.

When he opened his eyes again Hawke was gone from the hearth. Time had been skipping by him again. How much time? With a surprising twinge of sadness he believed for a moment that they had left him. But no: his two companions had moved to the other side of the dining-room table some distance away, and were holding an argument in hushed tones. They stood quite close together, but their arms were crossed over their chests. The pose put Hawke’s fur-covered elbows right over Varric’s forehead in a way that might have been comical, had they not been so upset.

Hawke was telling Varric no; to what, Fenris was not sure. He strained to hear, covering his mouth with the blanket to muffle his wheezing breaths. At last Hawke spoke loudly enough for Fenris to hear.

“I will not. It’s not what he wants. He has his reasons, Varric, you know that.”

Varric sounded frustrated. Fenris could see them only in shadow, but even then he could see the dwarf gesturing quite animatedly. “Sure he does. We all have reasons for the stupid things we do, but sometimes we have friends around to stop us from doing them. He doesn’t want a wound healed, fine. I get that. But this is serious, Hawke! He could die!”

Hawke’s tone wavered. “I won’t make Fenris do anything he doesn’t want to do, Varric. It’s his life, he can make his own decisions. After all he’s been through, how can we take that away from him?”

“But it’s  _stupid_!” The dwarf couldn’t help raising his voice. “Anders could heal him up in a few minutes! You’re just going to let him suffer?”

_Anders. Oh no._

They were going to drag him to the mage. Use magic on him. And he wouldn’t be able to stop them.

“No,” he spoke up sharply, and sat up. Or attempted to sit up. He got out from under the blankets with a little effort, but his arms and legs shook beneath him when he tried to rise.

The argument on the other side of the room broke off. “Take it easy, Broody,” he heard the dwarf say as he approached hurriedly.

“I do not need —” But before he could say healing, he was bent back down to the floor by a powerful fit of coughing that stole the air from his lungs. His sweaty hands fisted the blankets in frustration as he struggled to regain his breath. Vishante keffas, this blasted coughing.

“No one is going to force you to go to a healer,” Hawke said from somewhere above. He was using the reassuring voice that usually came out when he was trying to prevent bloodshed, and even with his face buried, Fenris could picture the forced smile he would have just then. The tight expression that would be around his dark brown eyes. “You would feel much better if you did, though.”

“You know what would really help?” Varric said, bending over and grabbing at the blankets twisted around the sweaty elf. “Taking these off.”

Fenris glared as ferociously as he could manage and wrested them back. “I need them.”

“You have a fever.”

“I am cold!”

“They’re called chills, elf. You feel cold, but you’re actually burning up. Look at you, you’re sweating!”

Fenris did not have a good response to this, but he clung to his warm blankets anyway, shivering and increasingly distressed and insisting that they leave him be. Equally stubborn, Varric continued try try to talk him into uncovering, occassionally throwing up his hands and declaring that he was giving up, but somehow not actually leaving.

Hawke turned his face between the two of them - his two mercenary companions, wrestling over blankets! - looking unsure whether to laugh or break something. 

Suddenly Fenris’s eyes widened. He stiffened, and stared into the distance. “Did you hear that?” He struggled to sit up, listening intently. “That noise?”

Varric looked over to Hawke. “What noise?” He sounded perplexed.

“Someone in the house,” Fenris hissed, frightened. He was sure of it. He could hear them, several of them, not far now. If he were not shivering so violently, he would go and slay them himself.

“Peace, Fenris.” He became aware of Hawke drawing his sword decisively, with a warm metal ringing sound. “I will investigate. All right? If anyone is here, I will find them.”

The elf relaxed. He bent his forehead into his palm and caught his breath. “Slavers,” he muttered. “They will not let me rest.”

“Rest,” Hawke said firmly, and pushed gently at Fenris’s chest until he laid flat on the ground. “I will kill any slavers that come here. I swear it.”

Fenris believed him. Of all people, he had learned that he could take this human at his word. Yes, Hawke would find them. He hated slavers. It was one of the things that they had in common.

All fears forgotten, Fenris blinked at the ceiling and listened again, as Hawke stalked into the distance. He forgot Varric, he forgot Anders’ clinic. His awareness went with Hawke, through his house. He could picture him stalking the same halls as his own weary nightly routine, checking the broken windows, the rotting floorboards, the hole in the ceiling over the ballroom. Something in it comforted him greatly. The manor would be safe, for as long as Hawke was here.

Fenris closed his eyes again, and walked for another time in the snow.

* * *

When he became aware again, he was being carried; a blanket wrapped securely around him, tightly enough that he could not struggle. But the arms under him were steady, careful. And the shoulder he rested on was solid and warm.

They walked outside in the clear night air. Somewhere below him, to one side, he could hear Varric talking quietly. The stars shimmered in the sky like sharp pinpricks over Hawke’s shoulder. Fenris watched them uncomprehendingly, until he realized what must be happening.  _They were taking him —_

“It’s all right,” Hawke murmured, turning his face to him. Fenris had never seen him so close before. Adrian’s features were not so harsh up close. Despite the square-jawed bone structure, there was a certain softness. He had full, thick eyelashes, as delicate as a child’s. Strange he had never noticed. The big man spoke softly, his mouth only inches away. “We’re not going to Anders. Okay? You can stop glowing now.”

Fenris quieted his brands from the weak shimmer that he had unknowningly activated.

“Where-”  His mouth was too dry to continue. He was so tired.

“To my home. Not far now.”

Fenris closed his eyes again. In his mind’s eye he saw them walking through the snowy forest he had traveled through for hours of fever, but this time, for the first time, he was not alone.


End file.
